Love's Healing Touch. Jane Perrine Myers

the cup of coffee go?” the nurse asked with a grin. “Was that all? Just a cup of coffee?”

      “Just a cup of coffee. She wanted to talk about my work as an orderly.”

      “Did she tell you that you should be a doctor or nurse?”

      Mike glared at Mitchelson. “How did you know she said that?”

      “Because we all think so. Can’t figure out why you’re not in med school, but we’re glad we got you in the E.R. and hope you won’t leave anytime soon.” When his beeper went off, Mitchelson hurried away before Mike could say a word.

      “Thank you,” he shouted down the hall. Mitchelson waved back.

      “Fuller,” Dr. Ramírez called in her doctor voice. “Transfer, please.”

      Back to normal. No more compliments, only a lot of lifting and hard work.

      Three days later his mother’s bus arrived at 10:00 a.m. which gave Mike plenty of time to clean up after his shift and drive to the bus station.

      Before she went to prison, Mom had looked like her paintings: full of life and sparkle, happiness shining from her. She’d changed during those years. Hard to remain vibrant in prison, she’d explained on his frequent visits, as if he couldn’t guess that.

      He waited on the platform, surrounded by the noise and the strong fumes from diesel engines.

      When she got off the bus, he hugged her, noticing she was thinner than he’d remembered.

      She pulled away to study him and put her hand on his cheek. “It’s so good, so absolutely marvelous to be here,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m out of prison and back with my boys.”

      “I’m glad, too, Mom.”

      She still had an innocent face, which had helped her market her forgeries but hadn’t fooled the judge. Now her skin bore lines and wrinkles, but the beauty remained.

      After she pointed out her one shabby suitcase, Mike handed the baggage claim to the bus driver and carried it to the car.

      “I’m so tired of wearing trousers.” His mother smoothed her jeans. “Boring, boring, boring, my dear, and not at all feminine.” She glared at her white shirt. “Do you still have my dresses?”

      “Yes, Francie stored everything while you were gone.” Mike started the car and backed out of the parking place. “But it’s been eight years. They’re probably out of style.”

      “Good clothing never goes out of style.”

      He grinned as her sudden air of certainty and confidence. Yes, it was great to have her home.

      After he stopped at several lights, she said, “My, my, the traffic is even worse than before.” She chattered on about how things had changed in Austin while he drove.

      When he pulled up in front of the small house, she said, “What’s this? We aren’t living here, are we?”

      “I know it’s not very big, but it’s what I can afford.”

      The shrubbery needed to be trimmed, but the house appeared neat enough on the outside. With white paint that flaked only in a few areas, black shutters, and a porch the size of a postage stamp, it had a homey aspect. But it was small, a fact even more evident when his mother opened the front door and stepped inside.

      The living room held a short sofa, two folding chairs and a television on an ugly metal stand. “It came furnished,” he explained.

      But she didn’t notice the furniture when she saw the paintings she’d forged, the ones Francie had saved for her, covering the walls. His mother had loved the impressionists and these glowed with the brilliance of color and light, illuminating the room. She turned to take them in, reaching out her arms to bathe in the beauty. Then she walked slowly toward one and touched her fingers to the rough surface.

      “Oh, thank you,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much I love these.”

      After a few minutes, she shook herself and walked through the rest of the house. First, she wandered back to the kitchen which had maybe five feet of counter space, a few cabinets and a card table with three wobbly chairs.

      “I fix most of the meals in the microwave,” Mike said.

      “Then I’ll do the cooking,” Mom said.

      “I gave you the master—well, the larger—bedroom.” He led her toward the door, shoved it open and followed her in to put the suitcase on the bed.

      She turned to consider the double bed, one dresser and bare walls. “White,” she said. “All the walls are white.”

      “Tim and I can paint them. You choose the color.”

      “Thank you. I’d like that.” She left the room and looked into the bathroom and the other bedroom. “You and Mike both sleep in here?”

      “We’ll be fine, Mom. We’re brothers. We’ll get to know each other better after the years apart.”

      She nodded again as he followed her back to her bedroom.

      “This is a nice part of town. There’s an H-E-B grocery store only a block from here. It’s an easy walk. And there’s a park nearby.”

      She placed her hand on his arm and patted it. “Mike, this is fine. I appreciate you opening your house to us. We’ve been apart so long. I’m glad we’re together.” She smiled and for a moment it was her old smile. “You’re a good brother and a fine son.” She dropped her hand. Opening the suitcase, she placed her things in a small pile on the bed before she opened the closet.

      When she saw what was inside, she pulled out one dress, sat on the end of the bed and stared into the closet. In her lap she held a gown of brilliant green with a shimmering pattern of gold. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

      “My clothes,” she said. “All of my favorite things are here. Thank you.” She stood and embraced Mike.

      When Mike opened a drawer in the dresser to show her the jewelry Francie had kept and a small bottle of his mother’s favorite perfume he’d bought for her, she cried harder.

      “Thank you, son. You’ve given me a wonderful homecoming.”

      Oh, boy. Too much emotion for him. When the phone rang, he gave his mother an awkward pat on her back. “I’ll get that.” He pulled away but touched her shoulder, which seemed to satisfy her. Then he ran into the living room and grabbed the receiver.

      “Yes, I can come in early today,” he said as he checked his watch. “I’ll be in by three.”

      He hung up the phone, placed his hand on one of the paintings and closed his eyes. With his mother here, the house was filled with turbulence. He could feel it—the tingle of her strong personality, the scent of her musky perfume, the rough swipes of paint in the painting under his fingers.

      Yes, Hurricane Tessie had hit. As calm as she seemed today, his mother was always a force to be reckoned with.

      He’d let her settle in today, but tomorrow he’d have to talk to her about getting a job to satisfy the conditions of her parole and because they just plain needed that income.

      He thought how tired and how much older she’d looked when she got off the bus, about her joy at seeing her clothes and her art. Then he shook his head as he remembered her tears. His mother never cried.

      Maybe he’d wait a few days before he suggested she find work.

      Chapter Three

      Almost midnight a few days later, and a moment of quiet during a long shift in the E.R.

      Mike headed outside and leaned back against the wall of the hospital. He took a deep breath, held it and let it out. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by the smell and the stress of the E.R. Tonight it was more than he could